


snow in venice

by hetahonda



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23056000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetahonda/pseuds/hetahonda
Summary: Romano prepares to bid farewell to his life as a nation.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	snow in venice

**Author's Note:**

> it’s a song! go look it up on youtube, it’s very bittersweet, i always thought that it had a very lonely feeling to it. 
> 
> kind of angsty. in a weird way, this was a vent for me

There was no need for two Italian representatives. Romano knew as much. Italy Romano, at some point, would have to begin that inevitable transition from nation to human. Romano knew as much. Italy Romano, at some point, would have to accept that he was no longer going to be a part of the community that he felt more and more detached from day by day. Romano knew as much. 

Day by day, day by day. His metaphorical clock was wearing thin. Romano had stopped counting as the days bled into weeks, and the weeks bled into months. He should have expected it, the way his skin refused to seal over as he pricked into them every morning, waiting for the drops of ruby red blood to retract back into his fingers, waiting for the healing to kick in, waiting for proof that he was still a nation, that he was still a part of the only community that he had ever known. 

He couldn’t keep it a secret forever. Not when Veneziano walked in on him that one morning, hunched over the kitchen countertop as blood ran down his hands and angry tears ran down his face. 

Their bosses were the next to be informed, naturally. They wished him well, offered him citizenship as a regular Italian resident, anytime he was ready - any time at all.

He still showed up for meetings, more in an attempt to fill that hollow feeling inside him with some semblance of familiarity than anything else. In another couple of decades or so he’d be gone, but everyone else he’d ever known would still be here, bickering over the world’s policies like overgrown children. 

He stopped showing up for meetings at one point. Nobody asked why. 

~

It’s snowing, covering the streets of Venice in blankets of white as far as the eye can see. Indoors, Denmark and South Korea belt noisily along to the karaoke machine, Canada and America scream at each other as they mash their controllers to Guitar Hero, Germany frantically cleans up after everyone else. 

Their house is way too small for that many people, but a quiet sense of comfort washes over Romano, a bittersweet familiarity in the chaos of it all. It’s the Italy brothers’ turn to host the annual New Year’s party and Romano realises, as he watches the others quietly from his place on the sofa, that he might not be a part of it next year, or the next one, or the year after that. He knows he’ll be sad about it in the morning, but for now, he is too buzzed to care.

It barely registers in his head when a partly drunk Spain pulls him to his feet, nudging him towards the karaoke machine. South Korea eases the microphone into Romano’s hand, yelling “Romano’s singing for us, Romano’s singing for us!”

Normally, he would have shoved the microphone back. Normally, he would have cussed Spain out for putting him in a situation like this. Normally, he would have had an eternity to do that with everyone else.

He doesn’t know if it’s the booze, or the drunken cheering of his friends around him, or the achingly empty feeling of loneliness that had been crushing his heart for months, but he grips onto the microphone and stumbles over to the machine. 

Veneziano had put the machine on shuffle, which in hindsight, wasn’t a bad idea. South Korea and Sweden had clogged the queue with TWICE and ABBA respectively the last time there was a party at their place.

The chosen song flashes on the screen. Romano doesn’t realise at first, until America obnoxiously yells, “Hey! It _is_ snowing in Venice!”, to scattered, half-hearted laughter around the room. 

_Snow in Venice_. It’s ironic, not just because of their current setting, but because of how many times Romano has cried to this song, thinking about how lonely he feels, and how much lonelier he’s going to become when he stops being like everyone else. 

He mumbles his way through the first two verses, something about snow, something about planes. It feels weird, hearing this song in circumstances other than being miserable and alone in his room, almost as if a part of him has been bared to everyone in the room. 

“ _And see you in London-_ “

Romano’s eyes shift to England, dazed and hanging off the edge of the couch. 

“ _Or maybe in Paris-_ “

France, nowhere near as intoxicated as England, shoots him a grin. 

“ _Berlin will be waiting-_ “

Prussia playfully elbows Germany at the mention. 

“ _And so will be Rome._ ”

Romano feels his heart break a little. 

“ _And maybe I’ll see you again, when it’s snowing in Venice-_ “

Veneziano smiles brightly at him.

“ _And I will be on my way home._ ”

The others whoop and cheer drunkenly as he finishes the first chorus, unaware of the hot tears stinging the sides of Romano’s eyes. 

Veneziano takes the second microphone from Denmark, and opens the next verse for him. Romano grabs on to his brother’s shoulder to steady himself. His vision is blurring, and whether it’s from the alcohol or from the buildup of tears behind his eyes, he does not know. 

“ _Yeah, it’s still snowing here._ ”

There’s a heavy, drunken feeling of sadness in Romano’s heart. He knows he’s going to miss the stupid, smiley faces staring back at him, but he doesn’t know if they’re going to miss him at all. 

“ _Are you doing alright? Are you lonely at night?_ ”

God, he is. God knows he’d spent his whole life building up walls and protecting himself from the rest of the world, a scared, defensive little boy brandishing a stick at whoever came too close. He’d spent his whole life watching other nations from afar, across battlefields and across meeting room tables, admiring Spain’s sunny disposition, Prussia’s natural wit, even Germany’s stupid work ethic, yet never letting his walls down enough the way his brother could. 

He’d realised that he loved these people, that he was going to miss them, but he’d given them no reason to want to miss him. 

“ _And see you in London, or maybe in Paris-_ “

Veneziano’s still singing. The others are singing along too. Denmark and Prussia are way too drunk and way too passionate for a song that they clearly aren’t familiar with. England, sopping wet after America dumped a glass of water on him to wake him up, mumbles incoherently as he struggles to keep up. Spain swings an arm around Romano’s shoulders, clumsily swaying to the beat. 

The song doesn’t sound so lonely anymore. Romano finds himself laughing along with everyone else. 

“ _Maybe I’ll see you again, when it’s snowing in Venice-_ “

Romano had sent the necessary papers to his ex-bosses one week ago. The new identity card that they had sent back feels like lead in his pocket. 

“ _And I will be on my way home._ ”

Romano doesn’t know when he’s going to see everyone else again. Romano doesn’t know why he cares.

Romano doesn’t know why, but he puts his head on Spain’s shoulder and lets the tears fall from his face. 

~

“Romano send you anything recently?”

Italy Veneziano - Italy - hums in agreement, sliding the postcard across the table. There’s a photo attached, of Romano and Japan looking like tourists in front of Mount Fuji, instant cameras in hand. “Japan! He looks like he’s been having a lot of fun.”

Spain picks the postcard up, looking it over fondly. The Romano in the picture had visibly aged a few years, moving into his mid 20s after what must have been centuries for him. “That explains the Tokyo Bananas he’s been sending me. Is he really going to spend the next few years backpacking around the world?”

“Every single country.” Italy reaches for a box under the table, filled with similar postcards stacked in neat piles. “It’s his own way of assimilating into human culture, and of making sure he gets to see each of us before… You know.”

Spain hands the postcard back to Italy. “He looks at peace. With his mortality.”

“He is.” Italy’s smile drops a little, hesitant, as if he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be upset. “If we’re being honest, I’m not, but that’s a talk for another day, yeah?”

“Italy…”

“I know he doesn’t have the luxury of time like we do.” Italy leans back in his chair and smiles. “I hope he finds what he’s looking for. I’ll be waiting for him in Venice until he does.”


End file.
